


Needed

by gabi1994



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Late Nights, M/M, Sleepy John, Tooth Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3495566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabi1994/pseuds/gabi1994
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody wants to feel needed, and everyone needs someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needed

John was tired. It had been a long day at the hospital. Too long, he’d drawn the short straw this week and gotten graveyard shift for two nights this week, instead of the usual one. It was usually a quiet shift, but tonight, tonight there had been a twelve car pileup on A40. His was the closest hospital, and he, on as emergency’s supervising physician.

It was late… or rather it was early, he glanced at his watch, seven thirty… Christ, he dragged a hand over his face, he was so tired his thoughts seemed to stutter to a halt and his mind sleep during blinks. It was not enough, he didn’t even need to be horizontal anymore, anywhere off the street would do…

He looked about confusedly. He could have sworn he was standing outside 221B Baker St. but his head listed on a stiff neck and his lids drooped over empty sea-blue eyes. He could bare lift his head enough to determine if his hand was on the right door handle.

Didn’t matter, he decided fumbling with difficulty for the key. As he dug around in his khaki pockets he leaned forward resting first his forehead, then one leather clad shoulder, then his hip melded with the blissfully solid green door. Barely cracked eyes slid closed and he was just summoning the energy to continue riffling through the various odds and ends that inhabited his front pockets… keys, keys, keys.

Fingers, numb through the fog of sleep touched a few pieces of change, a rubber band, a bent up paper clip, a business card… slowly, he shoved hands down into jacket pockets, his hospital ID, the lanyard it resided on, a stray packet of sugar… back pockets were patted, wallet and finally, finally keys discovered. By this time his front was fully pressed to the green door and he was loathe to support his own weight on aching feet, and even more unwilling to open his eyes in order to find the keyhole with the elusive, but now captured key.

The decision was made for him when the door was yanked inward. He couldn’t even summon the energy to yelp as he tipped forward falling into the dark interior of his flat, and into familiar wool clad arms.

“Sher..lk,” he mumbled into the starched cotton shirt feeling a row of little plastic buttons impressing themselves down his cheek.

“Good gracious, John, Where have you been?”

Those warm, woolen wrapped elbows hooked beneath his arms hauling him upright and John rested his head gratefully on the broad shoulder so kindly proffered, “Hospital…graveyard shift two nights…spent all yesterday wi’ u…  no sleep for…fourty-eigth? Night Sher”

John grumbled in protest when his pillow began shaking with laughter, but it didn’t bother him enough to work his jaw fully open. Instead he pressed his head harder against his warm pillow.  

The world tilted alarmingly as Sherlock linked long hands behind John’s shoulder blades and began the tedious process of dragging/lifting him up the stairs.

…

Sherlock grunted. John was heavier than he looked, solid with muscle, and currently dead weight. The man literally couldn’t keep awake long enough to form a sentence. A real shame, he could have used his help on the case today.

Making the top of the stair, he toed open the door and dragged his flat mate’s inert form onto the couch. Gently, he lifted trailing limbs up onto the olive leathered couch and covered the man in a light throw.

“You’d have liked this one John. It was terribly curious,” he commented to the sleeper.

He slid his phone from his pocket and looked at the Lestrade’s text again. His eyes were drawn to the door and the terrifically tempting mystery that lay beyond, then back to the man on the couch.

The door, the corpse, the mystery of the silver limed hands…

The comatose doctor, the friend, the second pair of insightful eyes…

Laying a long, pale hand over the deeply creased brow he felt no fever, just exhaustion, and tension, and stress, that even in sleep put lines in his tanned face.

The mystery would wait till tomorrow. Sherlock needed his doctor.


End file.
